


Indulgence

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her professionalism, impeccable table manners, exceptional conversation- all that was indulgence. </p><p><i>Now</i> she's spoiling him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgence

Mortimer runs his finger along the scalpel, and feels it catch on the grooves of his thumbprint. He sets it on the bleach-white towel, and checks his cuticles for hangnails. None. Everything is clean, from his hands to the towels and what sits on them, and- most importantly- Courier Six, nude from the trouser up and facedown. He smooths a hand over her back. Scarred as it is, no one will notice these among them.

“You’re quite sure?”

“Mortimer, if I weren’t positive, my shirt would be on.”

“I suppose you’re right.” he replies. There’s an unmarred patch on her right scapula. He’ll start there. “What time is it?”

She lifts her head from her elbow and rotates her arm, checking the Pip-Boy. “Four.”

“Two hours. Perfect. You’re sure you ate enough?”

“Mortimer, I’m _this_ close to making a joke about fattening me up.”

“Oh, you _heathen_.” he chastises to cover a chuckle. His exploratory touch turns comforting, sliding across her back. “You’ll tell me if you feel faint, won’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Or uncomfortable?”

“You won’t be able to shut me up.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for all _that_.”

She turns her head to the side; her hair’s clean for once, thank _God_. “Mortimer.”

His hand stills in the middle of her back. He responds quietly. “Yes?”

Her eyes are so gentle. “I want you to do this.”

Six turns her face back to the pillow. Mortimer lifts his hand from her skin, and takes the scalpel. He drags the back of the blade up her spine, testing how jumpy she is. Very little thus far. He flips the cutting edge down, and spreads a hand to her trapezius muscle. Gently Mortimer mocks motions, not touching, then lightly. He can feel the shaking under his left palm, and works it away in firm circles. “You’re tense.”

“Usually.” she replies.

Mortimer breathes deep, and holds the flat of the scalpel against her, metal still cold from the air conditioned room. “Relax.” he requests, and in moments, she does. As he pulls the scalpel across, he keeps it tilted to the back; doesn’t seem sharp against her skin until the point slides across, and away. When it touches her again, it’s the edge. Mortimer waits for her to breathe before skimming it towards him, only a white pressure-line in the wake. Again, a hair’s breadth to the right, and a pink scratch this time. Once more, and the line that follows burns red. No blood, but there will be.

“Are you alright?” he checks in.

“Dandy.”

The next cut is a little stronger, a little to the right. Crimson beads up from that one at the same time as the last. He draws two more lines in the row, Six silent but an oral exhale. Dots of blood stipple the line like strands of pearls- but unlike most of the pearls he spies around the Ultra-Luxe, these are real.

His free hand smoothes the cuts, blood smudging the pallor of her shoulder like a rouge of the cheeks. Five more cuts, meticulous and parallel, slotted between the four already there; she’s moaning by the last.

“Alright?”

Breathily, she replies, “Keep going.”

His eyebrows go up, followed by the corners of his mouth. “Who am I to deny a guest?”

Four more incisions, mirroring the first. Four way symmetry; he quite likes that. Mortimer smears a hand over the pattern, slicking her back in colour. She hisses, his index finger dragging on a forming scab and peeling it away.

“I recall you saying I would be unable to... quote, “shut you up,” unquote?”

She looks to the left, cheek flushed and contrasting the blue of her eyes. “I’m too high on endorphins to be smarmy _or_ polite.”

“Then what are you, pray tell?”

Her eyes drift shut, and back open. “Content.”

“Shall I go on?”

“Please.”

The scalpel skates down her ribs, and crosses her spine at the waist. The point maps a design above her left hip lightly, filigree flowing invisibly in her nerves. The scalpel digs in slightly when he turns the bladed side towards her, then digs purposefully. Where it holds her hip, his hand’s cold, and the metal’s warmed up. Nine cuts, fanned out in a half-circle surrounding the old keloid of a bullet under his thumb. Smaller nicks begin to fill the gaps.

“I think,” Mortimer says between the twenty-third and twenty-fourth, “we’ll end on this row.”

A quiet groan, like waking. “How many will that be?”

He takes a moment to calculate, index finger tapping. “Thirty.”

“Nice even number.”

“Isn’t it?” Mortimer admires, rounding the current total to twenty-five. Five more in slow strokes at careful angles, and he sets the scalpel on the towel to the side. She’s bleeding beautifully, shoulder coagulated and hip blooming red, dripping into his hand. He scoops it up, streaks it into what’s still oozing from her. Paints her back in burgundy.

His hand’s a lovely shade, as if flushed or stripped from scrubbing. Shame to wash it off, but one shouldn’t spare any small precaution in things like these. She’s standing by the time he steps back in, smiling over her shoulder into the mirror. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so artistic.”

His profession doesn’t value the arts- the old one much less so- but she knows that. “Should you be up?”

She nods, breasts cradled in her arms. A mercenary, but she cleans up spectacularly. “I’m a doctor. I’ll know.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement. Would you like anything?”

“A hot shower and a long nap?”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” With a gracious bow, Mortimer collects the towels.

“You know a sharps disposal?”

“Beg pardon?”

Six smiles when he turns to her. “Leave the scalpel. I’ll drop it in that dumpster in Freeside with all the used needles.”

He fights a frown. “How sophisticated, your usual haunts.”

She cocks a brow in response. “How sophisticated, convincing a brahmin baron his son was mistakenly abducted for reasons other than cannibalism.”

Normally, he’d be offended, but she’s admitted to the craving herself. “Touché.”

“Mortimer?” she interrupts when he turns for the door.

“Yes?”

A slight smile. “Thank you.”

A polished smile in return. “Thank you.”


End file.
